by George Worts
Mr. Barling shrugged indifferently. “Oh, these waters are lousy with little tubs like her,” he said with the contempt of a man who owned a yacht like the Wanderer. Then, as if with inspiration, “Julie! How’d you like to go ashore? How’d you like to go slumming in Penang — just the two of us?”
“Tonight?” Julie cried.
“Now!”
Chapter 3: “I Can’t Be Killed!”
AT AN early hour of the evening, Penang’s foremost sink of iniquity, the Gin & Bitters, was uproarious with revelry. The air clattered with talk and laughter. It was blue with tobacco smoke and thick with the vapors of alcohol. In one corner, a blackjack game was in progress. In another, fantan — Chinese fantan — was being played. Brown and yellow girls, lavishly lipsticked, powdered, mascaraed and rouged, drifted in and out.
The two white men from the two-masted blue schooner which had anchored off Swettenham pier early in the afternoon were comfortably getting tight on gin bijt, or trade gin.
The red-headed man deposited his empty glass on the bar, wiped his lips on his wrist, and said, “That lad looks pale.”
The tall, sardonic man with hawklike eyes and blue-black hair — he was in his late twenties and resembled a buccaneer — nodded judicially and said, “Yeah, and he’s due to look plenty paler.”
The man under discussion was a young man, no older than twenty-seven, who had been playing blackjack with gross, greasy Hat Gow. He was a big, loose-shouldered young man, wide there but narrow in the beam, handsome, with rough dark blond hair and eyes like brightest sapphires. He had long arms. His nose was Irish.
The blond unknown was finding fault with Hat Gow’s manner of dealing. He was thumping the table with a fist and shouting insults into the Chinaman’s fat, yellow, placid face. English or American, the young fellow evidently did not realize that he was courting trouble.
The red-headed man and the tall man who resembled a buccaneer put their backs to the bar and watched developments. They heard, above the uproar, the voice of the young man calling Hat Gow a dirty yellow crook, a dirty yellow cheat, and a dirty yellow so-and-so. They saw an assortment of brown men in sarongs moving gracefully toward the table with shiny eyes and pleased grins, and they knew that a Malay will hit, kick, bite or knife a white man without much provocation.
Innocent of danger, the blond man culminated his insults by punching Hat Gow, who had got up, in the nose. Then the young man began to laugh. The expression on Hat Gow’s fat yellow face was comical enough, but it is never prudent to punch a Chinaman in the nose — and then laugh.
“We better get that sap outa here,” the buccaneer said.
“Too late,” Sam responded.
He had seen the smoky shiver of light on white metal. The fat and murderous revolver in the Chinaman’s hand disgorged a bud of red fire. But the blond young man did not fall. The revolver had been fired point-blank at his chest, or so it seemed from where the red-headed man stood, and the shot had been a miss!
There was a scurrying among the brown men. They were massing about the man with the Irish nose and the hearty laugh.
“Give ‘em the bench,” the red-headed man barked.
His companion seized one end of a long bench on which lay a Japanese sailor, sleeping off a saki headache. The red-headed man seized the other end. They decanted the sailor to the floor and lifted the bench. They rushed across the room, battering their way through a wall of squirming humanity. Their rush carried them to the blackjack table and into the swarm of Malays.
The object of their anxiety was still erect and still laughing, although by all the rules of water-front warfare he should have been unconscious or dead.
Taking advantage of a momentary lull, the rescuing party seized the blond youth, each grasping one of his arms. Without loss of momentum, they carried him along, out through the doors and into the comparative calm and security of the moonlit Malayan evening.
“Walk!” the red-head panted.
The three started off down the street at a lope. A block away, assured that they were not followed, the rescuers stopped and examined their charge for wounds. He was unscathed.
“You sure are plastered with luck,” the red-head said.
“It’s always that way,” the young man answered cheerfully. “Perhaps I’d better introduce myself. I’m Laughing Larry McGurk, the guy who can’t be killed!”
“Yeah?” the red-haired man said.
“Yeah,” the merry stranger answered. “Sharks tried it. A tiger tried it. Men tried it. I tried it.” He glanced sharply from one bronzed, skeptical face to the other. “It’s impossible.”
“American, ain’t you?” the buccaneer asked.
“Kansas City, Missouri.”
“We’re from Missouri, too, in a way of speaking,” the red-haired man said.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Sam Shay,” the red-headed man answered. “And this is Captain Lucifer Jones.”
“I’ve heard about both of you,” Mr. McGurk said. “They call you Singapore Sammy on account of your hair is a four-alarm fire. They call this guy Spike Jones on account of he’s duck soup for pretty girls who spike his drinks with knock-out drops and take his roll. They also call him Lucky on account of he’s a child of misfortune. I’ve heard about you wherever I’ve been. I heard you were a pair of notorious characters that would rather cut a throat than eat.”
Singapore Sammy nodded his head slowly. “What else have you heard about us, Mr. McGurk?”
“I heard you two own that blue schooner, the Blue Goose, and that you’ve been chasing all over these waters in it for the past seven years. Looking for your old man who’s got a will or something he won’t let you have. I heard you’ve been stopped by every gunboat in Asia. I heard you’ll run anything for anybody if the price is right. I heard you do a little trading, a little pearling, a little poaching, a little gun-running. I heard you were fast workers in many lines — just two hard guys trying to get along.”
Lucky Jones was breathing heavily, but Singapore Sammy remained calm.
“Let’s hear some more about this charmed life you say you lead.”
Mr. McGurk grinned. “Did you see what happened? No matter who or what it is I try to get killed by, something always happens. But that isn’t the funny part of it. The funny part of it is that I’m going to kick off inside of a couple of months — and I can’t get killed, no matter how hard I try.”
“What’s so funny?” Captain Jones asked heavily.
“Well, I went to the best doctor in Chicago, because I had a terrible headache all the time, and other symptoms. The doctor said: I had a glooma. It is a little gland in the back of my head which has a kind of a skull all its own about the size of a walnut. He tested me out and said nothing could be done. He said this glooma would grow and keep on growing and all of a sudden I would go out like a light.”
“Did you try other doctors?” Singapore Sammy asked.
“What was the use? He charged me ten bucks, so he must have been good. I had the same hunch, anyway. I was getting so I could smell death.”
“How do you feel now?” Lucky Jones broke in.
“Oh. I’m used to it now. But it was tough at first. I was first mate on a Great Lakes ore carrier, running between South Chicago and Duluth. A nice berth, a nice run, nice prospects.”
“What kind of a ticket did you have?” Singapore interrupted.
“Skipper’s — limited. I was studying to take the limit off it, and I was studying to go into the office. It’s a fine outfit with room at the top. I chucked it, took all I’d saved, and went to Frisco. I’d always wanted to see Java, and I figured I might as well cash in there as anywhere. On the way to Honolulu I saw a fellow with a girl on deck one night — she was a million dollars’ worth of hey-hey. And the more I thought about that, the worse it got me down. In less than six months I was going where there aren’t any girls, and where it wouldn’t do me any good if there were. It made me so low I walked to the rail an
d jumped overboard.
“It was a black night, and there was a big sea running. A deckhand named Cinders saw me jump. He let out a yell and went in after me. Well, he got me by the hair and the ship heaved to and they picked us up.”
“So you began thinking you led a charmed life,” Singapore said.
“Hell, no. I thought that was an accident. It wasn’t until I grabbed that tiger by the whiskers outside of Bombay and cut his throat that I knew.”
“Hold on,” Sammy said. “Take it easy, brother. How long ago did you say the doc gave you six months to live?”
“Four months ago. Two to go — or maybe less!”
Lucky Jones muttered, “Let’s hear about that tiger.”
“Don’t rush me. I’ll get to the tiger. In Shanghai, I was ganged by a bunch of murderous coolies with knives a foot long. They had me right where they wanted me but I walked right through them and didn’t get a scratch. Then in Hong Kong I ran into a bunch of bandits with knives and guns tryin’ to kidnap a rich American tourist. I sailed right into the middle of them. They shot at me and they stabbed at me. But I didn’t get a scratch. You guys ever been in Bangkok?”
His listeners nodded.
“You know how thick the man-eating sharks are at the mouth of the Menam River?”
“At low tide,” Sam Shay affirmed, “you could walk from shore to shore on their backs.”
“I took a dare and jumped right off into the midst of them!” Laughing Larry declared. “They came at me, the way they do, rolling over on their sides and showing their teeth. But when they got near me, they stopped and backed off. They’ll chew through an anchor rope, but they didn’t take a nick out of me!”
“Let’s hear about this tiger,” Lucky Jones said.
“This tiger,” he said, choking with mirth, “was terrifying the villages about a hundred miles north of Bombay. The countryside was paralyzed with fear. He was eating natives right and left. I went up there and laid for this man-eater. One morning he came walking out of the jungle right at me. I met him halfway. When he got close he sat down and started to shiver. Did you ever see a tiger shiver? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
When Laughing Larry McGurk could talk again, he said, “I had his head mounted and sent it to my old skipper as a souvenir.”
“Did you ever pull a cobra’s tail?” Captain Jones asked.
“No, but I’m still young.”
“Are you game to pull a cobra’s, tail?” Lucky persisted.
“Where’s the cobra?” Laughing Larry inquired, with a gleam of interest in his sapphire eyes.
“A friend of mine has him,” Lucky Jones answered. “A Malay by the name o’ Arak Javon. He lives out by the Dhoby Ghat.”
“Lead me to him!”
Curious but reluctant, Sam Shay assented to this fantastic test of the blond man’s boasted luck. The three young men took a gharry, which is a small, enclosed, horse-drawn vehicle, to the bamboo and rattan residence of Arak Javon. Mr. Javon was a snake collector. He collected and sold venomous reptiles to menageries and zoos.
The bull cobra in question had been brought fresh from the jungle near Kuala Lumpur only yesterday, and was a savage and vicious specimen — a genuine hemadryad. It had not been de-fanged.
Arak Javon, a wisp of an old man, listened politely to the proposal made by the three white men, and indicated the stout bamboo cage which housed the bull cobra, deadliest snake on earth.
Torches were lit and set in a circle about the bamboo cage. The bull cobra was one of the most dangerous looking specimens Sammy Shay had ever seen.
When Larry McGurk went smilingly to the bamboo cage, Sam burst out. “Don’t be screwy! We’ll take your word for it!”
The blond man looked at him with a grin. He lifted the lid of the caee. The bull cobra began to leap about, to strike at shadows and bars.
With slowness and deliberation, McGurk reached into the cage, pursued the dancing tail with nimble fingers, clutched it, held it.
“Take your hand out of there!” Singapore gasped.
The blond man smiled at them amiably. He gave the tail a yank. The great hood reared above his hand. The pinkish-yellow tongue darted about. Torchlight gleamed on white fang tips. Sweat appeared in beads on Singapore’s sunburned forehead. Chills like snakes of ice were streaming along his spine. But the bull cobra did not strike. It was evident that it wanted to strike, but that some strange spell, or power, was preventing that deadly lunge. It was uncanny. It was incredible.
Slowly, deliberately, Larry McGurk released the tail and withdrew his hand. He closed the lid of the cage and turned back to the two men. He was laughing.
“If you think it’s a gag,” he said, “try it yourself, Red. Do I lead a charmed life or do I lead a charmed life?”
Singapore took him by the arm and said in a shaken voice, “Brother, the drinks are on me. We’ll go to the Mudhole. Have you served any time in sail?”
“A year once, in a Lake Michigan lumber schooner.”
“How’d you like to ship with us as mate? We’re sailin’ in the mornin’ to look up some pearls on an out-of-the-way island called Little Nicobar. We need a guy who can’t be killed!”
Chapter 4: Pegleg’s Story
PROFESSOR BRYCE ROBBINS was not a particularly sensitive young man nor did he possess an over-developed sense of smell, but he did not enjoy the sour-beer-and-cheap-tobacco flavor of grogshops such as the Gin & Bitters.
Professor Robbins was looking for the owners of the two-masted blue schooner lying off Swettenham pier. He had rented a motor boat and gone out to the Blue Goose shortly after she had dropped anchor this afternoon, and had been told by her Malay serang that Mr. Samuel Shay and Captain Lucifer Jones had just gone ashore on a matter of pressing business.
Somewhat familiar with the shore-going habits of seagoing men, Professor Robbins had been looking for Mr. Shay and Captain Jones in the waterfront grogshops, of which there were many.
He had hired a gharry for the entire evening. At each stopping place the gharry waited for him to take him on to the next. He was innocently unaware that his syce, the gharry driver, was the blackest-hearted of rogues, and that the gharry had been patiently stalked by three dark-skinned men since the moment he had left his hotel after a bite of dinner.
Professor Robbins told his syce to drive to the Mudhole. Then he opened the gharry door. The hitherto empty darkness of the gharry now contained three dark-skinned men. The instant he opened the door three pairs of claw-like hands reached out and snatched him inside.
Taken by surprise, Professor Robbins was for a moment unable to account for himself. But he was young and athletic. He had played football at Harvard not so many years previously, and he was in the pink of condition.
About a block from the Mudhole, the gharry, with its strange cargo, passed three men, three white men, namely, Singapore Sammy, Lucky Jones, and the man who couldn’t be killed.
The three young men swung to one side of the road to let the gharry pass. As it passed, they heard a smothered cry for help.
That vocal SOS was as distinct as a rifle shot.
The syce lashed the rump of his bony little horse with a whip. The three men deployed. Larry McGurk dragged the syce out of his seat and slugged him on the jaw. Singapore and Lucky Jones each leaped to a door and jerked it open. They saw a white man with a gag only half in his mouth engaged with three thugs.
They addressed themselves to the thugs, freely using fists and boots. The three dark-skinned men shrieked curses in Malay and ran.
Professor Robbins brushed himself off and said irritably, “Barbarous place! It’s criminal that this sort of thing can happen to a traveler!”
Lucky Jones eyed him sardonically and drawled, “Maybe the Resident would loan you a troop o’ cavalry, mister!”
The professor said ungraciously, “Naturally, I’m very grateful to you gentlemen.” He looked at Singapore. His eyes lighted. He said crisply, “I wonder if you aren’t the man I’m looking for. Sam
Shay?”
Singapore Sammy nodded. “I’m Sam Shay.”
“Good!” the scientist said briskly. “This is very fortunate. Where can we talk, Mr. Shay — alone?”
Singapore studied him. “You can say anything in front of these guys. This is my partner and this is my mate.”
Professor Robbins glanced at them coldly. “Very well. Where can we go?” — Singapore indicated the lights of the Mudhole.
At the bar the professor said, “My name is Bryce Robbins — Professor Bryce Robbins — of New York.” He hesitated. As his name kindled no sparks in the eyes of his listeners, he went on:
“Yesterday, in Rangoon, I heard about the expedition you’re planning. I chartered a plane and flew here, arriving a few minutes after you had anchored. I went out to your schooner and have been looking for you ever since.”
“What expedition?” Sammy asked in his lazy drawl.
“The expedition to Little Nicobar. Is it a secret?”
“It was supposed to be,” the red-headed man answered. “Lucky, have you been blowin’ off at the mouth again?”
“Not me!” the buccaneer said indignantly.
Singapore returned his blue-green eyes to the stranger’s face. What he saw was a tall, slender, wiry-looking man of about thirty, with alert gray eyes, a well-cared-for brown mustache, a thin-lipped mouth, and a lean, hard jaw.
“Well,” Singapore drawled, “what did you hear, mister?”
“I heard you were starting on an expedition to Little Nicobar to investigate a legendary monster that is supposed to live in the lagoon there.”
“What else did you hear?”
“That was all — you had fitted out to go to this island.”
Sammy said fiercely, “You dead sure?”
“Why, certainly. I wanted to see you — wanted to make a practical suggestion. I don’t take the slightest stock in this monster myth, but I’d like to join you. If we can come to some agreement, I’d like to underwrite the expedition.”
